


A tale of Confusion

by rainer76



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut, Will's in love...he thinks Hannibal isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: “Stay here with me, you chaotic creature, I think we need to clear the air.”





	

He doesn’t think Hannibal’s capable of love.

Abigail is the ultimate example of that in Will’s mind - her supposed likeness to his long dead sister, the 'affection' he held for her - the way Hannibal hefted the knife as he slit her throat from ear to ear suggests his capacity for emotion is stunted, if not non-existent. Possession/obsession is not love; it’s nothing Will wants to partake in, it doesn’t fit the common vernacular of romance.   There’s nothing healthy to be found in mutual destruction, if he were a woman, his friends would be shaking their heads and saying: _run, run you **idiot,** as far and fast as you can._

Will has friends - two of them - and their advice sucks. Plus, neither Jack nor Alana is particularly impressed with Will at the moment.

 _Run_ , they say, _run like a bloodhound, give chase to his wild scent._

Hannibal is one of the greatest actors he’s ever met.

Hannibal’s not capable of love, ergo, the emotions Will has toward Hannibal are entirely his own. He knows himself, every whim, desire, every filthy secret in his skull. Will knows he’s loved Hannibal for years, his cruelty, capriciousness, the quicksilver intellect, his humour, the animal cunning. He covets Hannibal’s ability to adapt, his chameleon-like skills to hide who and what he is until the time calls for it. Hannibal’s magnetic and charming and so beautifully composed. He’s Will’s bloody and untameable monster.

What they have _isn’t_ love; what they have will end bloody and in stark violence. What they have is skin sliding against skin, thighs caging Will in: it’s grey hairs under his fingertips, Hannibal arching his back with need. It’s the angry red eyehole of a bullet wound; and when Will skates his touch over it; he can _feel_ the delayed impact against his own heart, the final trajectory of a fatal wound. He can kiss Hannibal with one hand twisting in his silver hair, with his tongue delving deep, hips aligned and groins together and it has nothing to do with love and everything to do with possession. This is _his_ now; since they survived the sea; Hannibal is his to whittle and claim, until the other man grows bored with his company and takes up another – capricious and cruel - until he kills Will as easily as he did Abigail.

And Will’s okay with that, surviving doesn’t matter long-term. He can take a page from Hannibal’s book, live every second as it comes; revel in the knowing that nothing can survive to permanency. He lives for the immediacy of the moment, vibrant and so very alive.

It’s savage triumph when Will knocks Hannibal’s knees wide; it’s the way the other man shudders out a curse when Will licks, prim as a house-cat, tongue on the tip of Hannibal’s cockhead and fingers kneading at his ass, spreading him a little, spreading him a lot, until Will can shoulder his way down and lick there too, into the dark and hidden chasms of his body. It’s Hannibal and the way he smells. _Tastes_. The way his heels dig into the mattress. It’s his torso twisting like a sculpture, like someone in pained rhapsody, until Hannibal sobs aloud: _Mon cher, mercy, have mercy please._

It’s Will slicking his own cock and he doesn’t need to hurt, to punish Hannibal for what he can’t give. It would be the same as punishing a lion for its own nature, he’s a wild thing, and Will accepted his downfall on the bluff. But it’s the same dizzying rush when he pushes his cock inside, when he curves his upper body over Hannibal, elbows planted on either side of the mans’ head, noses touching in an Eskimo kiss, and rocks gently, as carefully, as he can.

He’s the first to do this to Hannibal, Will knows, and he’s quiet with amazement.

“In me,” Hannibal mutters. “Je veux…j’ai besoin de to en moi.” His hands clasp Will’s buttocks, insistent and demanding. “Ne laissez pas.” (I want…I need you in me. Don’t leave).

Will’s never been able to read Hannibal; has fallen for his tricks, been deceived and ruined. He’s always been alone in the complex maelstrom of love and desire. He smiles faintly, crookedly, and follows Hannibal’s direction, fucks him harder, more insistently. “Nowhere else?” He teases.  He screws his hips, bites Hannibal’s collarbone, he fits his mouth around the front of his windpipe, like Hannibal did to Dolarhyde, and presses his tongue flat.

“Ne.” Hannibal’s eyelashes are wet; he’s shaking around Will, small seizures. “Stay.”

Warmly, Will admits. “I love you.”

He thought once he’d say those words in anger or resentment; once, he had clear motive _never_ to admit it to himself let alone Hannibal. He’s pictured it as his dying admission; as a secret never given over to the daylight. He’s thought about saying/or _not_ saying those words in a dozen different ways. In the end Will says it carefree, with the sun shining through the window, with honest affection, after-all, it's only one more truth to spiral away.

It doesn’t matter Hannibal is a consummate actor or if he’s alone in the emotion because it’s what Will _feels_ and he can own it. Hannibal clamps around him like a vice, arms, legs, _ass_ squeezing until Will groans with the pressure of it. Hannibal’s eyes open, wild, his pupils blown near black.

“It’s alright,” Will tries to soothe, shakily, because he’s going to drown in his own up swell of emotion (as if saying the words aloud has given it space to double in intensity), and the only way to distract from it is to reassure the feral creature under him. He doesn’t say it doesn’t matter, because it does matter, to Will the emotion is real and he’s fought, battled, and been ashamed of it long enough. He could say ‘you don’t need to reciprocate, I don’t need you to act’ he could say I’m comfortable living in the moment. “It’s alright,” he decides softly, and keeps moving his hips, keeps biting the available skin – shoulders, pectoral, worrying at one nipple - until Hannibal comes, his cock untouched and hot between their bellies.

 “I value your unpredictability, Will,” Hannibal gasps out, slurring his speech, fingers grasping at Will's shoulder, spine. “But for once I think we need to have a discussion sans metaphor.” He’s hanging onto Will like a determined octopus, and if any space between their bodies cannot be abided.  “Stay here with me, you chaotic creature, I think we need to clear the air.”

 


End file.
